His Poems
Some lie, pins set, in a field of phlox, a living room, the road to the store; the smallest contact and they explode; hence, the poet’s country is full of the limbless.
Others, read without protection, whiten a watcher’s eyes instantly so he spends the rest of his life in snow.
The poet’s readers understand the risks, yet each book he flings into the crowd lands in
a pair of eager hands.
How can this be? Is it a trick the poet plays? Who are these readers? What can we do
to bring them here?
—Lola Haskins